I don’t even try to talk anymore.
“If one of you wants to only be with one person and the other one decides to be with a lot of people, that’s not an open relationship; that would be cheating!”
She’s the one screaming and sounding quite hysterical, but I’m the one who thinks I’m going mad. I piece together bits of sobbed words and pounded fists as I guide her towards the bathroom.
Words have never been my strong suit, but I try to make an effort. I feel...responsiblefor Briana, and well... She’s got a broken heart—and a twisted ankle. There are things to fix, and I’m a handyman.
Maybe that’s why I find myself thinking these odd little thoughts.
I like making things better.
And it’s been a long, long time since I had anyone I cared about enough to “fix.”
“He sounds like a right tosser. A bastard.”
“Right? I’m not being unreasonable?”
I don’t get words out before she plows ahead, “We were at a wedding together just last month, and I talked about how beautiful I thought it was. I told him about how I always wanted to find my one special person to go on adventures with and to do all the everyday things with. You know? Just that person who you know is going to be there for you? And he said we all hadonespecial person in the universe, that souls were cosmically joined. And today he says matrimony is selfish and my mother’s house is an altar of materialism! He’s in love with Mother Nature and wants to fuck lots of people in her. Ew. That sounded wrong.”
“Yes. It did.” I bite my lip.
She looks up at me.
And she laughs, and I laugh, just a little.
And she cries—a lot, and I keep patting her back because my words are weak, but my hands are strong, and I tell myself I can outlast her tears.
“Thank you,” she whispers into my chest after a few minutes. She looks up at me, wet eyes warm and lively even under all that pain.
What a little fighter she must be.
“You’re welcome,” I whisper back.
She gives me a little hug and hobbles into the bathroom.
My arms feel oddly empty, and I don’t like it.
SO. CENTAURS ARE Athing. I’m done in the bathroom and back on the couch, ankle up on the coffee table, resting in the middle of Santa’s Village like Gulliver in Lilliput.
They can cook, too. Or at least this one can. And they’re kind.
They’re also so super cool to watch. I think back to the movie I saw when I was little, the one with all the brightly coloredcentaurs and the pretty music, and realize that Nigel moves just like that—only with a lot more muscle and louder footsteps.
There is nothing wishy-washy about him. He has an air of determination. Something calm and factual, invincible about him. Like rock.
His fur (hair?) is soft, but his muscles under it... Yes. Like rock.
No, I’m not looking, and no, I’m not interested. I just notice things. I have nothing else to do. I can be observant and look at the new stuff around me and ask a billion questions... Or I can wallow and reexamine every conversation Josh and I had over our entire relationship, even though I know the outcome won’t change.
“Do you live in a house or a barn?”
“A big barn of a house. Yes, I can walk up stairs. And down them. Yes, it’s a pain. Here, drink your water, and then let’s get you to bed.”
Nigel pushes my suitcase at me.
I blush when I open it, and all my sexy “first time as an engaged person” lingerie falls out.
The see-through red negligee.
